Cranky is not the word. Cranky doesn’t cut it. I am a cauldron of rage.
I kept reading that “irritability” would be one of the side effects of this “diet” of mine. For the uninformed, I’m basically fasting this week. All I get to consume is a mixture of water, lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper. It’s horrible. It looks like pee. I can’t stand it. I would rather just drink water.
Anyway, I knew I’d get a little testy while on the Master Cleanse, but I had no idea my nerves would be so frayed. Day Three is meant to be the sublime day, where you start to feel a sense of control, euphoria, and energy. A colleague of mine even said I was actually looking more glowing today than usual. I agree, but I sense that I’m glowing because I’m so twitchy and peaked and downright mean on the inside.
A woman smiled at me on the glass elevator at work this morning. I didn’t acknowledge it. I turned my back on her instantly, thinking to myself “What are you smiling about? What the bloody hell are you smiling about, huh? Stop smiling!” A guy smiled on the way into the building, too, and all I wanted to do was slap the smirk off his face.
I am coming apart at the seams. I can’t overstate how much I hate this. But I can give you a good explanation of why I hate it so: The Salt Water Flush.
I have to perform the salt-water flush every day. Basically, it involves mixing sea salt into a liter of water, then pounding the whole thing. I shouldn’t really say “pounding”, because the gag reflex fires and that’s impossible. It’s more the slow, disgusting consumption of several glasses of tepid salt water. And that’s only the start, because salt water will not be digested, so it runs heavy through the bowels and eventually needs to be released. I can’t go any further by way of explanation. But it’s putrid. It’s nasty. And the whole process is making me a meaner person.
My wife tried to tell me last night that I’m looking through the window at another way of life. I’m standing in the shoes of every hungry child, she said. It was well-meaning, and I do believe I’m gaining something from the experience. I watched an episode of “King of the Hill” last night in which an X-Ray photo of Hank Hill’s beef-filled, constipated colon was set alongside a photo of a starving child in Bhopal. It resonated. But I’m not going to be as stoic about the whole thing as those starving kiddies, because this diet was a choice, not the result of some famine. It was a decision, and one I’m starting to rue.